Mazael risked a glance upward. At the peak of the barren mountain, far above, he saw towering walls of massive stone, similar to the construction of the mighty outer walls of Armalast. He had never been here, but he had seen those ruins before when Marazadra herself had appeared in his dreams.
They had found the Heart of the Spider at last, the place where Mazael’s father had tricked and defeated Marazadra…and the place where Celina du Almaine would summon her back if Mazael did not stop her.
“You will clear our path, warriors,” announced Azurvaltoria in that imperious tone. “We shall join our fellows in the Heart of the Goddess, and await the return of our glorious goddess.”
The valgast wizard said nothing for a moment, his clawed fingers tapping against the dark length of his staff.
“No,” said the wizard. “No, we heard the noise of an explosion within the stairs of the Tower of the Spider. Something has gone wrong in Tchroth, though I know not what. The vile enemies of the goddess are ever cunning. Perhaps this is part of some stratagem. Perhaps you speak the truth. Either way, you shall wait here until the Prophetess of the goddess and the High King of the Skuldari arrive.”
“Our business brooks no delay,” said Romaria with disdain.
The valgast wizard shrugged, ghostly flames starting to burn around his staff. “If you speak the truth, the Prophetess shall confirm your truth, and it shall be a glory to you. If you are filled with falseness, your treachery shall taint you like…”
“Oh, do shut up,” said Azurvaltoria. “I weary of these speeches.”
She made that flipping gesture again, the same one she had used against Rigoric, and a howling lance of flame erupted from her fingers and slammed into the valgast wizard. The priest had not seen the attack coming, and the spell blasted a smoking crater into his chest and flung him to the ground, his limbs twitching as he died.
For a shocked instant, the valgasts gaped at them.
“Hell,” muttered Mazael, lifting Talon.
A valgast warrior rushed at him, spear coming low to strike at his legs. Mazael blocked the thrust, twisted, and jabbed Talon between the warrior’s ribs. As the valgast toppled to the ground, a second warrior came at him, but one of Romaria’s arrows punched into his throat, killing the warrior before he could even attack.
Mazael turned to aid the others as Adalar fought against two of the valgast warriors, the talchweisyr snapping back and forth as he deflected their thrusts. Sigaldra sent an arrow into one of the valgasts, and Adalar killed it with a quick thrust of his curved sword. Mazael attacked the second valgast warrior. It had a shield of bone upon its left arm, and it blocked Mazael’s first two swings. The valgast wasn’t quite fast enough to deflect his thrust, and Talon skidded over the edge of the shield and opened a gaping wound in the valgast’s collar. The valgast screamed in rage and pain, and Mazael’s next thrust found its heart.
The surviving two valgast warriors retreated, preparing to flee. Romaria shot one through the chest, her arrow punching through a gap in its armor and bursting through its back, while Azurvaltoria loosed another lance of blazing flame. This time, her spell blasted the top half of the valgast’s skull to smoking coals, and the creature joined the others upon the ground.
Mazael let out a long breath and looked around. “Anyone hurt?”
“I do not believe so,” said Sigaldra.
“I thought,” said Mazael, looking at Azurvaltoria, “we were going to talk our way past. Not that I ever object to a good fight.”
The dragon looked almost embarrassed. “I have heard that same tiresome speech about Marazadra hundreds of times over the centuries. I fear I simply became exasperated.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Romaria in a quiet voice, collecting her arrows from the dead valgasts. “They weren’t going to let us pass. They would have tried to hold us here for questioning, and we would have had to fight our way free.”
“True,” said Mazael. “Azurvaltoria. Do you know the way to the Heart of the Spider from here?”
“Of course I do,” said Azurvaltoria, gesturing at the ruined temple crowning the mountain’s peak. “If we follow this terrace, a causeway cuts back and forth along the slope leading to the main gate. I suggest we avoid that path since we will likely encounter Skuldari priests and valgast wizards. There are other paths up the side of the mountain. Steeper, true, but we are less likely to be discovered.”
“Very well,” said Mazael.
“I would also suggest,” said Azurvaltoria, “that we find a discreet place and rest for a few hours.” She grimaced again. “I have worked a great deal of magic in the last few hours, and the human form is not as robust as the form of a dragon. Some rest would…not go entirely remiss.”
Mazael could tell that the admission cost her some pride.
“But we’re so close,” said Sigaldra. “The Prophetess will likely arrive at any moment.”
“Not for a few hours,” said Mazael. His Demonsouled strength did give him stamina beyond the others, but even he felt the drag of fatigue at his limbs. “If she takes the Tower of the Spider, she will have to wait a few hours for the fire to burn out. If she takes one of the other paths to the mountain, it will add a few hours to the journey. A few hours’ rest will not harm us, and we’ll need our wits about us to rescue Liane and defeat the Prophetess.”
Sigaldra started to protest again, only for a powerful yawn to interrupt her sentence. “You…may have a point.”
“First, let us cover our path,” said Azurvaltoria. “Valgasts prefer to hunt by scent, but we can make that unpleasant for him. Best to get outside of the circle of shrine stones.” She gestured, and fire started to crackle around her fingers once more.
They walked further down the terrace, outside of the circle of spider-topped stones, and Azurvaltoria started casting spells, flinging small bolts of blazing-hot flame. The bursts struck the dead valgasts, setting muscle and skin aflame and wreathing their gaunt bodies in fire. Soon all seven of the dead valgasts burned, plumes of greasy black smoke rising from their corpses. The smell was hideous. Burning humans smelled disturbingly like roast pork, as Mazael knew from past battles, but burning valgasts just smelled vile.
“There,” said Azurvaltoria with satisfaction. “That ought to throw them off our trail for a while. We cannot hide that violence took place here, but it will take them some time to track us through the stench.”
Sigaldra frowned and waved her free hand in front of her face. “Certainly I wish I could not smell that.” Adalar nodded in agreement.
They left the terrace and made their way up the mountain’s jagged, boulder-strewn slope. Mazael saw the broad causeway that Azurvaltoria had mentioned, and he remembered the common admonition of Amathavian priests that the broad and gentle way led to destruction. Certainly, the trail they had chosen was neither broad nor gentle, but instead steep and uneven, and they advanced in single file.
After an hour they reached a small ledge, and Azurvaltoria announced that it ought to be safe to rest for a while. Mazael had her cast the spell to track the presence of the Prophetess. According to the spell, Celina du Almaine had not yet left Tchroth. Likely she was still dealing with the aftermath of their escape from the city.
Which meant they were still ahead of her.
Romaria volunteered to take the first watch, and Mazael made no objection. Sigaldra and Adalar lay down, wrapping themselves in their cloaks against the chill mountain air, and Mazael sat against a boulder, closing his eyes for a moment.
He fell asleep.
###
And in his sleep, Mazael dreamed.
It was a dream he had dreamed before.
Again he stood in the Heart of the Spider.
The sky overhead boiled and churned, bands of black clouds swirling, bolts of crimson lightning jumping from thunderhead to thunderhead. The air was cold and dry and harsh, a bitter wind blowing past him and tugging at his clothes, just as it did in the waking world.
The Heart of
the Spider rose over him, silent and grim.
The stones were massive and rough-hewn and looked as if they had been carved and piled by the hands of giants. Mazael strode through what had once been a vast nave. The roof had collapsed long ago, piles of broken stone standing in jagged heaps, but the megalithic pillars still stood, as did the thick walls. Crimson lightning flashed across the writhing sky, and in that light, Mazael saw that carvings and reliefs covered the pillars and the walls, variations of the same image over and over again.
Spiders beyond count.
Some of the spiders had the head of a woman, while others had the body of a human woman with a giant spider for a head. One of the carvings showed the spider-headed woman devouring human victims, while others showed humans bowing and offering sacrifices up to the giant spider. In hindsight, Mazael realized that these were images of Marazadra, that the ancient creatures who had built both Armalast and the Heart of the Spider had carved those images to reflect her glory.
He kept walking, Talon in his hand, knowing that his enemy would await him.
The nave ended, and Mazael stepped into a vast circular courtyard. It had to be at least a mile across, and a wall of massive stone blocks encircled the entire courtyard. In the center of the courtyard rose a hill, its sides dotted with more spider-carved menhirs. Atop the hill rested a massive altar of rough stone, and above the altar was the Heart of the Spider itself, the place where the Old Demon had defeated Marazadra and banished her from the mortal world.
It looked a great deal like the mistgates that Corvad’s Malrag warlocks had conjured before the Great Rising. It was a curtain of gray mist ripped and torn by flickering fingers of violent lightning, snapping and crackling. It should have made a tremendous noise, but it was silent, utterly silent. Even in the dream, Mazael felt the power radiating from the thing.
He took a step towards the hill, looking around. Eight different naves stretched off from the round courtyard, and viewed from the vantage point of the sky, no doubt the entire complex looked like a single colossal spider.
“So you dream of me once more, Mazael Cravenlock.”
Mazael whirled, Talon coming up in guard.
The Prophetess stood at the base of the hill a dozen paces away. She wore the same style of armor that she had worn in Tchroth, overlapping plates of black steel that fitted closely to the curves of her body, a black cloak flung over her armored shoulders. Her eyes were like green gems, and over her red hair, she wore a spiked diadem like a crown of black iron. Up close, Mazael saw that the armor was more decorative than practical. Yet it made her look cold and dark and beautiful, and it exposed enough of her chest that he saw the Talisman of Marazadra nestled between her breasts, its legs encircling her torso to sink into her flesh.
It was only appropriate. The image of the woman standing before Mazael was not the Prophetess, not Celina du Almaine, but rather a creature that chose to employ her image to communicate with him.
“And you dream of me once more,” answered Mazael. “Marazadra.”
Marazadra laughed at him. “Do not presume to flatter yourself, mortal. I did not summon you here.”
“Nor did I summon you,” said Mazael. “I suspect we have very little to discuss.”
For a moment Marazadra regarded him with flat, unblinking eyes, and then she laughed again.
“An accident, then,” said Marazadra.
“I doubt that,” said Mazael.
“You have your father’s paranoia,” said Marazadra. “You also have his blood, blood that contains the power of a dark god. You are approaching the place of my power, and like calls to like. The connection happened without our conscious will. In a way, I suppose you and I are distant cousins.”
“Fitting, that,” said Mazael. “I never really got along well with most of my family.”
“Appropriate words from the man who slew his father, his son, and several of his half-brothers and half-sisters,” said Marazadra.
“Given that you are already dead,” said Mazael, “perhaps you have little to fear at the moment.”
“Indeed not,” said Marazadra. “For soon you shall be dead, and I shall be resurrected to rule over this world.”
Mazael said nothing, considering his options. He had no need to speak with Marazadra. He already knew what the Prophetess intended, and he had the full details of her plan. And yet perhaps something could be gained here. It was always dangerous to assume that he knew everything about his enemies. Perhaps he could learn something useful…or perhaps he could feed false information to Marazadra.
One of Molly’s favorite tactics popped into his mind.
She liked to annoy people and see how they reacted.
“Your armor,” said Mazael, “is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever seen.”
Marazadra sneered at him and cocked her right hip to the side. “It is, is it not? More ceremonial than practical, to be sure. In ancient days, when the Skuldari were at the height of their power, my priestesses wore this ceremonial armor to battle. My emissary has revived the tradition, donning the ancient armor of the priestesses of Marazadra as she prepares to summon me and conquer the world in my name.”
“It looks good on her,” said Mazael.
“Does it?” said Marazadra, smirking. “Is that what your lustful heart desires, child of the Old Demon? She can be yours. I can make her give herself to you if that is what you desire. Any woman you wish can be yours. Or the barbarian girl? I can make her submit to you. You can make them both kneel before you, and take them in the same bed if you wish it.”
“That’s very tempting,” said Mazael, “but I don’t need the help of a giant dead spider to seduce a woman, and even if I did, I’m married.”
“I know what you want,” said Marazadra, stepping towards him. For a moment the image of the Prophetess seemed to waver, and Mazael caught a glimpse of the hideous reality of Marazadra behind the illusion of the dream, the spider larger than a mountain, ghastly and towering and powerful beyond comprehension. “It is the same thing your father wanted. Power and dominion and conflict. I can give you all of these things. You desire battle? This world is mine, but it must first be conquered, and a thousand cities and strongholds must be laid low. You can be the one to destroy them, child of the Old Demon, and you can bathe in the blood of a hundred nations and kingdoms.”
“I could,” said Mazael, “or I could fight you and your emissary and your servants. You said I crave battle? I cannot deny it. How thoughtful of you to provide me with all the battle I might wish.”
She bared her teeth at him, and for an instant, the white teeth of Celina du Almaine flickered into something like the crimson fangs of a soliphage. “Such proud, boastful words. You shall regret them. You shall regret them bitterly. Your father fell in ruin and defeat, and you shall follow in his footsteps.”
Mazael grinned at her. “My father fell in ruin and defeat because I killed him, and he defeated you first.”
“You presume to challenge a goddess?” said Marazadra.
“No,” said Mazael. “You’re dead, and your power is bound within the Mask of Marazadra. I instead presume to challenge your emissary, and she’s not entirely sane. Didn’t you realize? Lady Celina du Almaine is an angry and bitter woman. The Prince of Travia cast her aside, and she’s going to take out her rage upon the world. She thinks that fear of you will inspire virtue and righteousness in men. As well set fire to a house to kill the spiders within it.”
Marazadra laughed at him. “My emissary is my most devoted mortal servant. What you call madness I call clarity of vision. She desires vengeance, and I shall grant her more vengeance than she can possibly imagine.”
“No, you won’t,” said Mazael.
Again the contemptuous sneer returned, the image of the colossal spider flashing behind the scowling face. “You cannot stop me.”
“I know exactly how to stop you,” said Mazael. “There’s no mystery left. The Prophetess took the Mask of Marazadra from the caverns o
f the Veiled Mountain. The Mask holds your power. She will use Liane as the vessel for your spirit and power. My blood trapped in the maethweisyr will empower the spell, and if she brings together all three elements in the Heart of the Spider, you will be reborn in Liane’s body. Then the Prophetess will sound the Horn of Doom and Fate and summon legions of your faithful dead to serve as your army and conquer the world.”
“You think you know everything, prideful boy?” said Marazadra. “Fool.”
“I know enough,” said Mazael. “All I need to do is kidnap Liane and return her to the Grim Marches. Let the Prophetess and the Skuldari and the valgasts bring their armies to get her back. I’ll raze Armalast and send Tchroth crashing into ruin just as I did to the Dominiars and the Justiciars and Ragnachar and the runedead.”
“You will not live to reach the Heart of the Goddess,” said Marazadra, her anger growing. “You think to measure yourself against the feeble foes you have broken? Thrice-blinded fool! Already my Spider Guards hunt for you. You will not live to face the Prophetess again. She will find your poisoned, bloated corpse, and…”
“The Spider Guards?” said Mazael. “Some sort of guardian of the Heart of the Spider, I assume? I do thank you for the warning. Most sporting of you.”
Marazadra hissed in rage, drawing herself up. The illusion of the Prophetess vanished, and the huge spider reared over Mazael, its armored body like a hill, its legs like tree trunks, its eyes burning like molten coals, its sword-like pincers dripping with poison that spat and hissed against the ground.
Then the Heart of the Spider vanished around him, and Mazael found himself standing in a lightless void.
Liane stood a few paces away, looking at him.
Sigaldra’s sister had the same blond hair and blue eyes, though she was thinner, her features more delicate. Sigaldra looked hale and strong, features that Mazael had always found attractive in a woman – Marazadra’s taunt had carried at least that much truth. Liane, by contrast, looked ethereal, almost wispy.
Mask of Spells (Mask of the Demonsouled #3) Page 18
